“There’s the three shots that were fired in this house,” he said. “They’re all .32-revolver bullets—just alike. You can’t get away from it, sir: all three people here were shot with the same gun.”
X
The Closing of a Door
(Friday, November 12; 9:30 a.m.)
As Heath spoke Sproot passed down the hall and opened the front door, admitting Doctor Von Blon.
“Good morning, Sproot,” we heard him say in his habitually pleasant voice. “Anything new?”
“No, sir, I think not.” The reply was expressionless. “The District Attorney and the police are here.—Let me take your coat, sir.”
Von Blon glanced into the drawing-room, and, on seeing us, halted and bowed. Then he caught sight of Doctor Doremus, whom he had met on the night of the first tragedy.
“Ah, good morning, doctor,” he said, coming forward. “I’m afraid I didn’t thank you for the assistance you gave me with the young lady the other night. Permit me to make amends.”
“No thanks needed,” Doremus assured him. “How’s the patient getting on?”
“The wound’s filling in nicely. No sepsis. I’m going up now to have a look at her.” He turned inquiringly to the District Attorney. “No objection, I suppose.”
“None whatever, doctor,” said Markham. Then he rose quickly. “We’ll come along, if you don’t mind. There are a few questions I’d like to ask Miss Ada, and it might be as well to do it while you’re present.”
Von Blon gave his consent without hesitation.
“Well, I’ll be on my way—work to do,” announced Doremus breezily. He lingered long enough, however, to shake hands with all of us; and then the front door closed on him.
“We’d better ascertain if Miss Ada has been told of her brother’s death,” suggested Vance, as we went up the stairs. “If not, I think that task logically devolves on you, doctor.”
The nurse, whom Sproot had no doubt apprised of Von Blon’s arrival, met us in the upper hall and informed us that, as far as she knew, Ada was still ignorant of Chester’s murder.
We found the girl sitting up in bed, a magazine lying across her knees. Her face was still pale, but a youthful vitality shone from her eyes, which attested to the fact that she was much stronger. She seemed alarmed at our sudden appearance, but the sight of the doctor tended to reassure her.
“How do you feel this morning, Ada?” he asked with professional geniality. “You remember these gentlemen, don’t you?”
She gave us an apprehensive look; then smiled faintly and bowed.
“Yes, I remember them. … Have they—found out anything about—Julia’s death?”
“I’m afraid not.” Von Blon sat down beside her and took her hand. “Something else has happened that you will have to know, Ada.” His voice was studiously sympathetic. “Last night Chester met with an accident—”
“An accident—oh!” Her eyes opened wide, and a slight tremor passed over her. “You mean. …” Her voice quavered and broke. “I know what you mean! … Chester’s dead!”
Von Blon cleared his throat and looked away.
“Yes, Ada. You must be brave and not let it—ah—upset you too much. You see—”
“He was shot!” The words burst from her lips, and a look of terror overspread her face. “Just like Julia and me.” Her eyes stared straight ahead, as if fascinated by some horror which she alone could see.
Von Blon was silent, and Vance stepped to the bed.
“We’re not going to lie to you, Miss Greene,” he said softly. “You have guessed the truth.”
“And what about Rex—and Sibella?”
“They’re all right,” Vance assured her. “But why did you think your brother had met the same fate as Miss Julia and yourself?”
She turned her gaze slowly to him.
“I don’t know—I just felt it. Ever since I was a little girl I’ve imagined horrible things happening in this house. And the other night I felt that the time had come—oh, I don’t know how to explain it; but it was like having something happen that you’d been expecting.”
Vance nodded understandingly.
“It’s an unhealthy old house; it puts all sorts of weird notions in one’s head. But, of course,” he added lightly, “there’s nothing supernatural about it. It’s only a coincidence that you should have felt that way and that these disasters should actually have occurred. The police, y’ know, think it was a burglar.”
The girl did not answer, and Markham leaned forward with a reassuring smile.
“And we are going to have two men guarding the house all the time from now on,” he said, “so that no one can get in who hasn’t a perfect right to be here.”
“So you see, Ada,” put in Von Blon, “you have nothing to worry about any more. All you have to do now is to get well.”
But her eyes did not leave Markham’s face.
“How do you know,” she asked, in a tense anxious voice, “that the—the person came in from the outside?”
“We found his footprints both times on the front walk.”
“Footprints—are you sure?” She put the question eagerly.
“No doubt about them. They were perfectly plain, and they belonged to the person who came here and tried to shoot you.—Here, Sergeant”—he beckoned to Heath—“show the young lady that pattern.”
Heath took the Manila envelope from his pocket and extracted the cardboard impression Snitkin had made. Ada took it in her hand and studied it, and a little sigh of relief parted her lips.
“And you notice,” smiled Vance, “he didn’t have very dainty feet.”
The girl returned the pattern to the Sergeant. Her fear had left her, and her eyes cleared of the vision that had been haunting them.
“And now, Miss Greene,” went on Vance, in a matter-of-fact voice, “we want to ask a few questions. First of all: the nurse said you went to sleep at nine o’clock last night. Is that correct?”
“I pretended to, because nurse was tired and mother was complaining a lot. But I really didn’t go
